


all the little meg ryan moments

by livingtheobsessedlife



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Bucky isn’t in the talent industry, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hollywood AU, M/M, bucky Barnes has commitment issues, but sam’s an agent and Steve’s an actor, no homo bro vibes turns into yes homo, sam Wilson is a wonderful person, there are quite a few ‘shovel talks’ in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:34:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25852930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingtheobsessedlife/pseuds/livingtheobsessedlife
Summary: It’s not Bucky’s fault that his best friend became an overnight celebrity actor. It’s also not his fault that Steve’s new manager is infuriating, self-centered, and conveniently pretty-faced. Everything that follows really isn’t his fault either.He blames Sam for the whole falling head-over-heels thing.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 74





	all the little meg ryan moments

_Come by for lunch!_ , Steve had said. _It’ll be fun!_ , he’d promised. 

Sure, getting lost on a studio lot was exactly what Bucky considered fun. Exactly his kinda afternoon. Glaring at his phone, Bucky mentally curses whoever ordered the twenty-something identical trailers for the set of Steve’s show. A bunch of identical white cubes all lined up, what a great idea. His lunch break’s slipping by and he has absolutely no clue which trailer belongs to Stevie. 

_Sixth trailer in, third back_ , Steve had told him in way of direction. It had sounded so simple at the time, like the directions he used to teach his little cousins how to cross a road and read a map. Only now, he counts five trailers over and doesn’t see a sixth, and the bustling crowd of production assistants and huge costumes held up high so they don’t touch the ground as actors with minor roles and a single line of dialogue frantically rush past him, whispering their lines and sipping overpriced, on-brand sparkling water. Bucky hates California. He’s probably not even at the right set. 

His stomach gurgles, and Bucky’s ready to throw in the proverbial towel. _Fuck this_ , he thinks typing out a curt rain check text to send to Steve. If he times it right, he can probably make it through the McDonald’s drive through before his break is over. 

Just before pushing send on the text to Steve, a man talking animatedly into his speaker phone bumps into Bucky, and his phone goes flying. 

The man hardly acknowledges the rude jostling beyond an ambiguous wave and a pause to mouth _sorry_ in Bucky’s direction. 

“Wow, fucking thanks for that, dude,” Bucky mumbles, barely trying to keep his voice down. He’s hungry, so sue him, “Fucking love this place. Jesus.”

It serves to make the man look back at least, and after a brief flash of obvious apathy as Bucky bends to grab his phone, in a second he’s circling back and saying something dismissive into his phone, eyes locked on his hangry, long-haired, and out-of-place target, “I’ll call you right back.”

Bucky glares at him, “You made me drop my phone.”

The guy _shrugs_ , “Yeah, yeah, I said I was sorry. Anyway, are you Bucky Barnes?”

Bucky narrows his eyes, and his fingers clutch tighter around his phone now-secure in his hand. He still hadn’t managed to press send. 

“Maybe,” Bucky replies cryptically, “Who’s asking?”

Suddenly, the guy’s in motion again, “Great. Finally. We’ve been waiting for you. Steve mentioned you’d probably be the guy in sweats looking lost. C’mon.”

Bucky looks down, and yeah he’s wearing sweats, and he definitely was looking lost in this place. Damn Steve. The guy’s already off, hooking left and right turns through the maze of trailers that boggled Bucky’s mind. It occurs to Bucky then, cursedly, that he has no choice but to follow the disrespectful phone asshole to Steve’s trailer, and (though reluctantly) he jogs to keep up. Fucking Hollywood. 

Soon enough, they come across what Bucky could only vaguely, in some alternate universe, describe as the sixth trailer in, third back. But sure enough, Steve’s name is scribbled on the door in black permanent marker in handwriting Bucky doesn’t recognize, and it’s Steve’s voice that beckons them in when the guy raps at the door. 

“Sam! You found Bucky!” Steve’s characteristically obnoxiously cheerful for a guy who hasn’t had lunch yet and works in the blazing California heat. He’s usually like that. Bucky’s used to it by now, he shakes his head and glares at the back of the head of the so-called Sam.

Slowly, Bucky turns with narrowed eyes to the person at his left. Sam does the same. 

Bucky says, “So _you’re_ Sam!”

The puzzle pieces fall together. Steve has spoken highly of Sam before, but now he’ll forever be linked to the inconsiderate, phone-jostling asshole in his mind. Bucky turns back to Steve. 

“I’might’ve gotten a little lost on my way here,” Bucky admits, he glances down at his phone and sees the time. Not even time for a drive thru lunch now. Damn, “Sorry, Stevie, but now that I’m here, I don’t think I’ll have the time. I gotta head out.”

Steve literally pouts. More than twenty years of friendship, and Bucky still has no clue how Steve exists like that; he’s all wayward emotion and open expressions. In hindsight, it makes sense that he went from armyman to actor. Bucky, on the other hand, is all about poorly concealed emotions and lying through his teeth. He rolls his eyes as Steve sighs meaningfully.

“I was really looking forward to catching up, Buck. Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s-“ Bucky sighs, “Bill’s my manager tonight. He loved you. Maybe you could- talk to him? I don’t know.”

Steve beams, “I remember Bill! Oh, what a good guy! Had a super cute kid. Oh, come on, Buck, let me call him. You gotta at least let me try!”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but relents, tosses his phone at Steve as he collapses on the tiny inlaid sofa in the trailer, “Whatever,” He mumbles, “Give it your best shot. Sure.”

Way back when they’d first left the military together, Steve and Bucky had gotten their first ever civilian jobs together, much as they did with the rest of their life up until that point. They met first day of kindergarten, both had their first kisses on the same double date, first came out to one another, first enlisted together and eventually left together. Best friends and all that, even in their rudimentary jobs as dish washers at some nowhere shithole Hollywood restaurant. 

But when Steve had auditioned for some pilot accepting amateurs at an interview in West Hollywood, Bucky had known it was out of his depth and he picked up Steve’s shift so his best friend could audition Saturday afternoon. Neither of them really expected Steve to get cast, it was just a ‘welcome to Hollywood’ rite of passage. You try the acting thing, inevitably fail, drowning in a sea of artists, and return to bussing tables for the rest of your Californian days. But then, see, Steve actually landed the role. 

He quit his job at the restaurant, getting an uncharacteristic hug and wish of good luck from their manager on his way out, and seemingly became an overnight sensation as the lead in a debut television series called _The Avengers_.

The most surreal night of Bucky’s life was when he watched the pilot air on cable with Steve from Bucky’s thrifted teal couch and they watched as Steve Rogers trended on Twitter. Overnight, his best friend seemingly won the hearts of the whole world in the Hollywood lottery. Bucky’s lucky that Steve’s always been one to stick close to his roots, oblivious to his fame and turning down VIP invites to rooftop raves in favor of Chinese takeout movie nights with Bucky. 

Bucky really doesn’t expect the begging Bill to give home more time thing to work. Bucky swears Bill’s always had it out for him, the surly bastard. 

But then ten minutes later, Steve’s apparently bought Bucky an extra hour of lunch in exchange for something autographed by Steve himself for Bill’s sister. 

“I don’t know how you do shit like this all the time,” Bucky grumbles, catching his thrown phone at his stomach, “Only you, Rogers.”

“Oh, shut up. It was nothing. Now come on, the craft services here is going to blow your mind,” Steve looks to Sam, who is furiously typing something out into his phone and seemingly trying to melt into the floorboards of the trailer just as Bucky leverages himself back onto two feet. Steve smiles, wide and genuine, “Wanna come, Sam?”

Bucky doesn’t miss the careful way Sam’s eyes dart uneasily at Bucky before he shakes his head, “M’not hungry right now, Steve, but thanks. You guys go ahead. Have fun.”

Steve pats Sam heavily on the back as he drags Bucky out of the trailer. 

Craft services on Steve’s set, as it turns out, does indeed blow Bucky’s mind. Just under an hour later, he’s wrapping Steve in the hugest hug he can possibly offer, stomach full and autographed memorabilia in hand.

“No rainchecks,” Steve mumbles as they begrudgingly release their hug. 

Bucky nods seriously, “Never. Now get back to work.”

Steve laughs, “Look who’s talking.”

Steve waves in Bucky’s direction all the way until Bucky clambers back into his Jeep and sticks the keys in the ignition. When he looks back up at his oldest friend, Sam is crowding him once again, nose in his phone. By the time Bucky’s out of the parking lot, Steve’s already been shoved into a white leather chair by the makeup crew. 

The next time that Bucky has to show up on set, it’s as a favor to Steve. 

“Please come to the wrap party,” Steve had begged the night before over French fries and milkshakes, “It’s gonna suck. I hate parties. You being there will make it so much better.”

Bucky really doesn’t want to go. 

He hates parties even more than Steve does. But Steve’s his best friend. And he’s never been to a wrap party before, he reasons, maybe it’s fun. It’ll probably have good food. 

“Alright,” Bucky had agreed, dunking half a dozen fries directly into his milkshake and avoiding Steve’s eyes, “I’ll show up. Since you asked so nicely, dickhead.”

Now, having experienced Steve’s wrap party firsthand, he can admit: his reasoning had been half right. The food was definitely good. It wasn’t fun. 

Which, okay, it could potentially be fun. But Bucky doesn’t belong here. He’s not an actor, or a writer, or a creative guy. He doesn’t get color theory or know what lights wash people out. If somebody yelled at him to block the last scene, Bucky’d look the same as if someone told him he’d just walked into horse shit. Right now, he’s just a dishwasher whose best friend accidentally became a tv Star. And he doesn’t know anybody else here. 

Except for Sam. But Sam’s face still… annoys him. His nose is always in that stupid smartphone. 

Sam’s not the only agent here. They’re all easily recognizable as the guys skirting the edges of the large studio party, noses stuffed in their phones, not unlike Sam. But the rest of them, they huddle together like an ugly clique, false and rude and self important. They only look up when their client comes toward them, and Bucky watches them paste on a fakeass smile and peel it right back off again when their client leaves satisfied. Sam, however, is removed from the clique, alone against a separate wall not twenty feet away from the other agents. 

An hour in, and Bucky finds himself next to the guy despite himself.

“Sam.” He nods politely at the agent. 

Sam nods back, “Bucky.”

And they stand in silence, and watch the circus act unravel around them. Bucky feels vaguely like he was teleported to an alternate universe. After awhile, Bucky feels Sam watching him. 

_Wow_ , Bucky thinks, mentally rolling his eyes, _Congrats! Somebody finally got their face out of their phone. A miracle!_

Bucky turns to Sam and catches him in the act. Sam doesn’t even feign shame, just lets his curious visage morph into an unabashed grin. Bucky furrows his brows, feels his own shoulders tense automatically.

“What are you looking at?” He snaps.

“Nothing, nothing,” Sam insists, “I’m just thinking.”

“Yeah, well… stop it.”

Silence returns like a bus at a four way stop. Bucky watches as Steve toasts his costar Tony Stark with an uproarious, head-thrown-back kind of laugh. The two have their arms wrapped around one another’s shoulders. Bucky wonders if Steve realizes how close the two are. A production assistant from props wiggles her way up to Steve, and Tony disappears when she asks for a picture. 

It seems like every member of cast and crew alike are begging for a conversation with Steve, or a picture, or even just the retelling of some meaningless, shared memory that Steve always remembers. Bucky doesn’t blame them, but of course, it sort of takes away any escape route he possibly could have had planned. And so when he himself starts to glance innocuously at Sam, he doesn’t have much of an excuse. 

“Bucky,” Sam says, voice calm and measured. He doesn’t even turn his head or look away from Steve as the whole cast takes a group picture ahead of them, cast in bright light, “Do you have something to ask me?”

Bucky considers pretending, he really does. Sam got to cover up what he was thinking, why shouldn’t Bucky be able to do that? But then, he really is curious, so he says to hell with it, and cocks his head, crosses his arms over to another. 

“Why do you show up to this stuff? I’m sure you have way better stuff to do than watch one of your clients get fawned over by people who already love him. I mean, you’re always on your phone. Wouldn’t it be better to do that stuff in an office or in person or something instead of on a set that you don’t really have to be at?”

Sam turns away from Steve to finally look at Bucky, and he shrugs, “I don’t know. It’s my job, man.”

Bucky watches Sam’s eyes dart, he juggles his phone from one hand to the other and inhales sharply, as if hesitating, “Plus, I don’t know. Steve’s a good guy. If he wants me here, I’ll be here. No questions asked. I wouldn’t be where I am today without him having total trust in me, so I could at the very least have the same for him. He’s more than just a client to me. He’s a friend, y’know.”

Bucky hadn’t been expecting such an earnest response. Huh. 

Slowly, Bucky nods. 

So Sam passed the test (Bucky hadn’t realized it was a test, but the wave of tenuous relief that washes over him makes it feel stunningly like giving an A+ to a deserving pupil). Apparently. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as Bucky had previously been led to believe. Phone-jostling history or no. 

In tandem, Sam and Bucky turn away from one another once again to watch Steve prance from the center of the studio to the long craft services table. A whole posse of crew trail along after him, and Steve’s completely oblivious. He thanks all the assistants that work hard at craft services, genuinely appreciative. 

“You’re not too bad, Sam Wilson,” Bucky says suddenly, a stiff, camouflaged parade rest in the back of the room. 

Sam doesn’t say a word back, but Bucky feels that thoughtful gaze on him once again. 

Maybe Sam Wilson isn’t as much of an asshole as Bucky had previously thought. 

Steve turns to the back of the large studio, eyes searching the drafty corners for his best friends. When he spots Sam and Bucky standing idly and amiably next to one another, his face explodes into a beaming smile, and he reaches a wide, friendly hand into the air to wave happily at the pair of them before he’s swept away once again by the undercurrent of appreciative cast members. 

For Steve, Bucky considers, he can stick around Sam for a little bit longer. For his best pal, sure. 

When Steve gets the call that he’s nominated for an emmy (two actually: one for best lead actor in a drama series and one for outstanding drama series, though the first one sounds more formidable in Bucky’s opinion), Bucky’s the first person he calls. 

Well, no, that’s not true. 

Bucky’s the first person Steve calls _after_ he gets off the phone with Sam. 

But, Bucky reasons, he had to call Sam first for professional reasons. Sam would call the publicist and the designers and make the hotel arrangements for him, make sure Steve will be picture perfect when the day comes. All Bucky’s gonna have to do is show up on time and try not fuck everything up. So really, it’s all just professional courtesy that Bucky isn’t Steve’s first call, because Sam’s a busy guy and Steve’s the most considerate dude Bucky knows. It has nothing to do with the sanctity of their tricenarian friendship. 

“I’m so happy for you,” Bucky says into his phone, cupping his hand over his mouth so his boss doesn’t here. He can’t stop smiling, “Congratulations, Steve. You deserve it. You’re a shoe-in to win. Wow.”

Steve’s slightly breathless over the line, and if Bucky didn’t know any better he’d say the guy almost sounds embarrassed, “That’s what Sam said, too. But I’m up against some fantastic actors. I’m just honored to be nominated, really.”

“Well if you’re gonna be all humble, I’ll brag for you, huh?”

Steve snorts, and Bucky can already tell he’s feeling a little better, “Between you and Sam, all of Hollywood’s gonna be thinking I’m the greatest actor who’s ever lived before the awards even start. Tha-“

“Barnes!” Somebody shouts from Bucky’s end. The boss, once again. 

“Shit, did I get you in trouble?”

“Always. I gotta go,” Bucky says quickly, “Congrats, Stevie. You really do deserve it.”

That night, Bucky watches the stylish E! news anchors discuss Steve’s nomination. They don’t seem to have a doubt that he deserves it either. 

Bucky rents out a suit and everything for the big night. He’d heard that some hot shot designer was specially tailoring a suit just for Steve, all bespoke and fancy, but Bucky rents his, and he looks just fine, thank you very much. 

Steve picks him up in a limo, has the thing drive right up to his apartment, and he pops out of the skinny sun roof, beaming.

“Hey, Bucky! Hurry up! We got a party to get to!”

The whole thing distinctly reminds Bucky of his senior prom night (not a good memory, but Bucky has higher hopes for tonight), and he’s already laughing and tipsy-sober as he slides into the back of the car. Sam’s already there, as well as the bottom half of Steve.

Steve knocks twice on the roof of the limo, and the driver pulls away. Sam and Bucky sit in silence the whole way to the venue while Steve cheers enthusiastically and intermittently dips down to get his friends’ approval. Sam and Bucky smile and laugh and give their friend a happy thumbs up every time. 

When they actually get to the venue, their limo becomes just one in a long line of limos, and Bucky feels the very sudden urge to get into the limo driving business. It’s gotta be better than dishwashing, at any rate. 

Steve practically spills out of the car, immediately ushered to a red carpet lined with more blinking cameras that Bucky could possibly count. Steve can’t seem to stop smiling, and if Bucky hadn’t watched Steve repeatedly turn down champagne for water on the drive to the awards show, Bucky would’ve guessed his best friend was totally wasted. But no, he’s just naturally so happy and bubbly that he could be sober or smashed and nobody would know the difference. 

Almost immediately as he steps out of the limo himself, Bucky is pointed in the direction of a way-less-glamorous red carpet. More of a grey carpet in all honesty. Dimly lit. The closest thing to a camera on Bucky is the backs of all the overly ecstatic photographers. Sam follows closely behind, and Bucky tries his best to give off the sense that he doesn’t feel innately lost in the crowd. 

When they circle back and meet back up with Steve at the end of the long, red line, Bucky notices that Steve looks distinctly more nervous. Sure, he’s just as cheery and excited. He throws his head back in laughter. But Bucky knows Steve. The actor’s eyes dart anxiously around the room, his shoulders are tight, his knuckles flex in and out of tight fists. Bucky’s about to say something when suddenly Sam reaches up a friendly arm and pats Steve on the back, tugging him close to wish him good luck.

“Stop worrying, Steve,” Sam says under his breath, just loud enough that Bucky can hear him from the other side of Steve, “You’ve got this in the bag, my man. And if you don’t, we still get free dinner. It’s a win-win.”

It’s not what Bucky would’ve said, but Bucky also can’t help but notice the way Steve’s shoulders relax minutely, and the grateful smile that grows to match. Bucky trails behind the other two as they lead the way through the crowded theater. 

When they find their designated row near the rest of the cast of _The Avengers_ , Bucky finds a tiny placard stuck up against three seats in a row, each identical card reading STEVE ROGERS +2. Bucky takes one of the seats without a word, sits and watches as Steve mingles with the fashionably dressed cast and crew and other various A-listers. A couple crew members who remember Bucky from his visits on set shake his hand and draw him into some small talk, but the rest of the room is vibrating with an energy and excitement that Bucky can’t even begin to muster himself. He’s way too far out of his element. 

Sam, after doing the necessary rounds, skips the seat next to Bucky and sits. They share a close lipped smile. 

Steve practically throws himself into his seat when the host- Terry Crews this year- dances onstage. Bucky and Sam share a look.

Terry tries a couple jokes, talks into the mic, paces the stage. If Bucky had been at home watching from his antiquated television set, he probably would’ve said that Terry was a great host. But there’s something about being there in person, sitting among the crowd. Everybody just wants to get to the awards already. 

The Avengers is a new show. Most of the cast and crew have never been nominated for any acting award, let alone one with such high notoriety. The energy behind and around Bucky is palpable. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky notices Steve’s right knee bouncing up and down. 

Out of the ten awards that _The Avengers_ was nominated for that night, Steve’s award is the first one up. Bucky isn’t even the one nominated and he thinks he might throw up. 

To Bucky, it feels like slow motion. 

Amy Poehler produces an envelope seemingly out-of-nowhere, she cracks a couple jokes that Bucky hardly hears, reads off four names and-

“The winner for best lead actor in a drama series is…” She fakes a drumroll as she flips the tab of the envelope open, “ _Steve Rogers with The Avengers!_ ”

The whole group around Bucky leaps to their feet. Steve’s face is beet red, and he’s smiling so wide Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if his face split in two right there on the stage. Steve’s an annoyingly happy guy, but Bucky can’t remember the last time Steve looked that happy. 

When Steve’s name is called, Sam and Bucky cheer louder than anybody else in the theater. Sure, the cast and crew are clapping like their hands are about to give out, and the whole lot of them give Steve a proud standing ovation, but nobody else manages to scream quite as loud and with as little grace as Sam and Bucky, whooping proudly and inelegantly. 

Onstage, Steve hugs Amy Poehler and accepts both the heavy, metal award and the microphone. 

“Wow,” Steve breathes, his voice ricocheting not only through the theater but also through the television sets of millions of families at home, “I can’t believe this is real. This feels like a dream. There are some people I’d like to thank for this award if that’s alright. Mom, dad, who’ve supported me no matter what I choose to do. My best friend Bucky, who believes in me and stands in my corner for everything. Sam, my agent, who pushes me to be the best I can be. The whole cast and crew at Avengers who took a chance on me and believed in a random kid from Brooklyn. Most importantly, I want to thank all my fans and the viewers of the show. You guys also took a chance on me. This is your award too. Thank you.”

When Steve disappears backstage, Sam and Bucky are still clapping like they can chase everybody else away if they can just keep on going. 

Steve returns to their seats 15 minutes later, crouched so he doesn’t get in anybody’s way or block any camera shots, and he’s grinning like nothing else.

“You good?” Steve mumbles, leaning toward Bucky as he slips into his seat. 

Bucky raises an eyebrow, “Are you kidding me? You’re the one who just won a huge award. I’m fine. Are _you_?”

Steve beams, “I’m great, Buck.”

He flashes a chunky bronze statue at Bucky from under his suit jacket, and Bucky has to smother an obnoxiously loud snort. 

That night, The Avengers ends up taking home every award they had been nominated for. The whole cast is electric when they finally make it to the after party. Everybody’s reaching for the drinks like they’ll save them from the morning. 

Bucky finds that the party isn’t all that different from the wrap party. Only, there’s more drunk people and way more A-listers. 

Everybody there seems to want a piece of Steve and in the course of it, Sam and Bucky get physically pushed to the wayside, forced to skirt the edges of the party once again. They stay to make sure Steve doesn’t get into any trouble (he’s been known to do that, has a penchant for emblazoned declarations and standing up for the little guy, it’s usually best not to leave him alone when there’s this much alcohol flowing in such small quarters). This time, though, Bucky doesn’t mind standing next to Sam as much. 

They watch all the drunken happenings like their very own tv show, produced just for their own entertainment, and Bucky lets himself relax, grabs a passing drink from a tray and snags a literal handful of small, warm puffs of appetizer-something. 

Standing next to each other, tucked against a tulle-encased wall, Sam and Bucky watch as A-lister Thor lewdly moons the whole room (an actor who Bucky had loved in the film ‘Gods and Monsters’ and whose bare ass Bucky now has ingrained in his brain forever). The absurdity of it all crackles any tension left between them like a cheap lime green glow stick, and soon enough Sam and Bucky are as tipsy as the rest of them, guilelessly enjoying an endless array of free canapés. 

It’s with the neon lights oscillating about their heads like drug-induced halos that Bucky learns the specifics about Sam’s past. Sam’s double fisting some sort of crab-stuffed appetizer when he tells Bucky he was in the military before he got into this Hollywood business of his.

“You’re joking!” Bucky exclaims, disbelieving. His canapé-stuffed fist pumps excitedly in the air. 

Sam shakes his head, “Not at all. Air Force.”

“How the hell did you get here from there then, huh?”

Sam shrugs, throws a canapé back into his mouth like a placebo shot, “I dunno. How does anything happen?”

In truth, it all happened because of Steve. Well, not really. He can’t quite explain how he ended up in Hollywood for even so much as a day, let alone the last three and a half years, but something about the smell of dreams in the air led Sam to agree to work at his uncle’s mostly unsuccessful business as a freelance agent on top of his main job at the VA as a group counselor. Sam’s business as an agent never really left the ground until he officially added Steve Rogers to his roster of lost ducklings. The improbable string of events have lead Sam to today, skirting the edges of a wild, post-academy award after party. 

They both watch in amusement as Darcy Lewis, the debut actress who had walked off the stage with a Best Supporting Actress Win not two hours earlier, tries and fails to plant a sloppy kiss on Steve halfway across the room, and it sets them into a spur of laughter. 

Sam waves down a passing drinks waiter, and Bucky finds himself wondering the same thing: _how does anything really happen?_ When Sam passes him a flute of champagne, Bucky’s smiling, just at the edges of his lips, but enough. 

Thor gets his pants halfway over his ass for a second time before Steve and one of his costars manage to lug strong arms around the celebrated actor’s shoulders and guide him to the outdoor patio out of Sam and Bucky’s sight. They don’t see Steve again until much later in the evening. 

“Did you- did you know that Thor and Bruce almost eloped in Vegas a couple of years ago?” Steve demands, much later, his words fast and heavily slurred as he finds his friends, “ _Ha!_ ” 

It’s closer to morning than night at this point, and while Steve is more wasted than Bucky has seen him in at least a decade, Sam and Bucky switched to nonalcoholic drinks and sneakily nabbed appetizers hours ago. Basically sober, Bucky can’t remember the last time he had that fun of a time in a room full of bustling, overly extroverted partners. 

“What did you say?” Sam laughs, sharing a look with Bucky over Steve’s lolled head, each of them hulling an arm under the actor’s huge shoulders and guiding him out of the emptying restaurant, “I only understood half of those words, Steve. You’re wasted.”

“I’m an Emmy award winner!” Steve cheers suddenly, thrusting a prideful fist in the air. He roots his feet to the rippled gravel of the alley and refuses to move, repeatedly cheering his newfound success.

“Yes, Steve,” Bucky agrees, openly patronisingly, “You are. Good for you, bud. Let’s get going, yeah?”

Steve nods like an overly-sprung bobblehead, stumbling in the direction of Sam’s red corvette. Sam thanks the valet and presses a green wad into his palm with a grateful smile as Bucky buckles Steve into the backseat. 

“Don’t get handsy with me, Buck,” Steve laughs, his body otherwise limp against Sam’s vintage leather seats, “You don’t get a free pass just ‘cause you’re my best pal.”

Bucky intentionally pinches Steve a little tighter with the seat belt than completely necessary and mumbles grumpily as he clambers into shotgun, “Shut up, asshole.”

Sam eyes Steve out of the rearview mirror as he twists the key in the ignition, the beautiful vintage engine roaring to life amidst the silence of twilight, “I swear to god, Steve, if you throw up on my seats I’m never driving you anywhere again.”

Steve just laughs heartily, his upper body swung to the left as Sam pulls quickly away from the sidewalk. 

“Hey guys?” Steve says, only half a mile away from his apartment, “Can we get some food?”

Sam and Bucky roll their eyes dramatically at each other, but they end up at a 24 hour diner half an hour away from Steve’s place. 

Sam orders five of the cheapest, greasiest burgers the sleazy, little, lit-neon diner offers as Steve rests all his body weight against Bucky.

There’s a moment as the apathetic, exhausted-looking waiter sticks his blue pen into his breast pocket and he hesitates, thinking over Steve’s tired face like he recognizes him from somewhere but can’t quite place the guy. An ex’s ex or a high school buddy maybe. That guy from that place, that kind of thing. And the truth is, if the guy had looked at Buzzfeed or People or a TV set that just so happened to be on the right channel in the past six hours, then he probably would know exactly what he was looking at. But the moment passes, the waiter nods twice and trudges behind the red linoleum counter to put their order in with the tiny, nightlighted kitchen. Sam and Bucky share a look over Steve’s heavy, diagonally leaning head, and Sam lets out a breath. 

When the burgers come, Sam pushes the platter of all five patties at Steve and sits and watches impatiently as Steve sits upright and gets to work devouring all five burgers. Around burger three, Bucky ends up sipping on a soupy strawberry milkshake, and he smiles at Sam with ice cream on his upper lip. 

The next day, Steve doesn’t remember getting home. Or rather, getting to Bucky’s place. 

As Steve finished off his neat, greasy quintet of burgers, contentedly licking at his fingers, he’d marginally sobered up, but was far from home. Bucky’s place was closer. 

“Why don’t you just drop the two of us at my place, Sam? It’s closer than driving all the way back to Steve’s apartment,” Bucky suggested as the waiter wandered off with Sam’s card and the check.

Sam had raised an eyebrow, “You sure you can deal with him?”

“With this numb nut?” Bucky snorted, hooking a thumb at Steve’s tired, lumpy form, “Of course. Hey, Steve, you wanna have a sleepover? It’ll be like the good ol’ days.”

Steve’d nodded, largely unhearing. His inebriation had diminished and given away to stolid exhaustion. 

“Alright,” Sam agreed, eying the large pair opposite him, “Sure, I can drop you guys off at your place.”

“Hey!” Sam called out not too much later as Bucky arranged Steve’s armpits overtop his load bearing forearm. Bucky pauses at the front gate to hear Sam, “If he ends up throwing up and demanding voluntary homicide tomorrow morning, I require video commemoration. Have a good night, Barnes.”

Even with one arm going fizzy beneath the weight of his best friend, Bucky limply waves at the receding corvette. Steve snorts loudly, half-unconscious, and Bucky doesn’t feel even a little sorry when Steve’s shoulder clips the door jamb on their way in. 

That’s how Bucky ends up waking up to the smell of bacon late the next morning. When he stumbles into his kitchen, Steve’s wearing a KISS THE CHEF apron that Bucky has zero recollection of ever owning, and he’s looking fresh as a mayflower. If Bucky hadn’t been excessively leaned on the night before, he would have no idea that Steve had gotten absolutely wasted. 

Steve smiles at Bucky as he appears in the kitchen doorway, brows furrowed with twin exhaustion and confusion.

“Morning, sleepyhead!”

“I hate you,” Bucky decides, hulling himself onto a stool.

Steve smiles charmingly and slides a fresh plate of bacon across the counter, “No, you don’t.”

Bucky stares down at the perfectly done plate, an ache growing behind his eyes with every waking moment. Steve’s seemingly superhuman metabolism has always confounded Bucky. He wouldn’t doubt that the actor had woken up early and taken a long run before serving Bucky this very breakfast. It doesn’t make sense. 

“No,” Bucky says decidedly, taking a big bite of one of the strips of bacon, “No, I definitely hate you.”

Steve turns around to poke at something in the pan, but directs a pointed grin at Bucky, “Doesn’t seem like you hate Sam anymore.”

Bucky points his fork at Steve, eyebrows high on his forehead, “Shut up already. I _never_ liked you.”

But even Steve notices that he doesn’t actually disagree with him. Steve grins down at his eggs, and doesn’t say another word about it. 

With the dishes cleaned up, Bucky snaps a picture of Steve posing with his ridiculous apron and his sword-like spatula, and he sends it to Sam with a frowny face emoji. 

_What the hell?!_ Sam responds. Bucky shoots back with another equally indignant text, and they don’t stop until Sam comes by in the evening to pick Steve up again. Bucky grins at him from his doorstep and watches the stupid, little corvette disappear into the Los Angeles distance.

After that, Sam and Bucky text semi-frequently. It’s mostly to make fun of Steve and remind each other when requisite Steve lunches/appointments are coming up, but occasionally Bucky’ll ask after Sam’s friends at the VA or Sam will ask if Bucky had seen the season premiere of whatever reality show was airing. 

But then the problems for Bucky start happening when a couple months later Steve starts dating his costar.

Tony Stark used to do movies, he was big time-big time, but he switched to tv after a couple years of hard luck and strict, self-appointed privacy. Tony had decided he’d go back into tv the moment that he fell in love with the pilot script of The Avengers. He claims that he knew it would be a hit from the moment he read the opening scene, and he wanted to be a part of it. 

On the set of _The Avengers_ , the two leads found off-camera love. 

Bucky would be ridiculously sick of it if he hadn’t seen the way the two of them interact (and literally act- on screen) together. Their chemistry is incredible, it’s the weirdest thing. 

Even when they were daydreaming twelve years olds, Bucky never would have bet that Steve would end up falling in love with an old-money movie star A-lister. But then again, nobody predicted that Steve would end up under the red-hot spotlight of all of Hollywood either. Life’s fickle like that. 

When it comes down to it, Bucky knows Steve deserves somebody who loves him like Tony so obviously does- that’s not to say that Bucky didn’t 110% give Tony the shovel talk, puts the fear of a Bucky-shaped god in the poor guy. Despite all shovel-related lectures, Bucky sees the way Tony makes his best friend happy, so Bucky is largely supportive of their relationship. 

But then, therein lies the aforementioned problem. 

Steve’s so head over heels for Tony that he’s spending all his free time with his new boyfriend instead of his best friend. 

Bucky opens a magazine to a random page at the Walgreens counter and is faced with a blurry centerfold picture of his best friend being passionately kissed somewhere outside of a restaurant in East Hollywood. He shuts the magazine violently, and shoves it determinedly back into its caddy. 

“Just the chips please.”

“No magazine?”

Bucky feels his jaw go tense, “Not today.”

Bucky understands, he swears he does. If he had a hot, rich boyfriend he’d spend all his time mooching off him too. But the thing is, Bucky doesn’t have a whole lot of friends beyond Steve. 

Sure, he has Nat. He does. She’d probably answer the phone any time of day or night for him. They text just about every day, try to keep a standing biweekly night out pencilled into the proverbial books. But the problem with Nat is that she’s always either working herself half to death or when she isn’t working and they do go out she ends up networking the whole time. 

As Bucky does not feel like getting wasted to distract himself from the lack of attention being paid to him, he takes a risk and shoots a text to Sam: _hey there’s this new place that lets you pick out stuff and then smash it wanna go???_

The blinking gray ellipses appears for a moment, but it doesn’t take Sam long to respond: _That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard let’s go dude_

And so that’s how Bucky finds himself… as Sam’s friend? 

The smashing-things place is indeed the weirdest thing either of them have done in a long time (LA is full of weird shit, seriously). Sam laughs uproariously, head thrown back, as Bucky makes a show of smashing an outdated printer with a baseball bat. 

“How did you even find this place?” Sam laughs after they slot the requisite coins into the parking meter, eyes on the improbable red signage above the building’s skinny storefront as Bucky holds the door for him. 

Bucky grins, “I have my ways.”

Bucky catches Sam mumbling as they approach the reservations desk, “What the _fuck_.”

Bucky is smiling when he greets the well-pierced employee behind the desk, “Hey, we’d like to smash some stuff please?”

The employee grinned as he led them to a back room built out of plywood and messied by broken scraps and vibrant spurts of spray paint, “You guys have come to the right place then.”

“ _Holy shit_ ,” Sam curses under his breath, and Bucky’s grin grew. 

They end up getting the Date Night package. Not because it’s a date- which it totally isn’t. Not at all. It's the best deal for two people, that’s all. The two of them make awkward eye contact, nodding way more than they have to, as Bucky makes a series of effusive, nervous hand gestures at the employee, pointing at the laminated price list. 

“Uh, yeah, we’ll do the, uh- the date night package, I guess. You know. Since there’s two of us.”

The heavily-eyelinered man behind the desk doesn’t take a lick of notice of Sam and Bucky’s awkward tension, the nervous gestures. He just nods his head and hands them their protective gear. 

Bucky whoops as Sam smashes a vintage lamp with an oversized sledgehammer. When Sam turns back to Bucky having victoriously destroyed his object, he’s grinning like a madman, and honestly so is Bucky. 

It’s the most ridiculous not-a-date that Bucky thinks he’s ever been on. He can’t stop smiling like an absolute loser-moron. 

Afterward, they get burgers. Of course. 

Bucky picks the red slices of tomato off his burger, and Sam wordlessly eats them off his plate as Bucky sneaks french fries from his. 

The two of them talk and laugh and drink. They spend close to three hours at the corner booth of what very well might be the cheapest burger joint in LA. 

“No check?” Their teenage waiter asks for the fourth time, conspicuously eyeing the empty leather pocket he left on the edge of the table over an hour earlier. Sam offhandedly shakes his head and sends the anxious kid away. 

Bucky smiles and they seamlessly merge back into their conversation about the best crappy films of all time. 

It’s not until Bucky makes it back to his tiny apartment, the sky exhibiting the infamously vivid orange brushstrokes of late evening, and he finds himself unable to stop smiling even when he’s alone in his crappy, dark living room, that he realizes okay, so maybe that wasn’t completely not-a-date. It kinda felt like a date. And Bucky’s not completely mad about that. 

So Sam and Bucky end up texting a lot more after that. 

It’s less of a semi-frequent, Steve-related communication and more of a constant, never-ending contact. 

Bucky wakes up almost daily to a text from Sam: _morning :)_

They continue to have not-a-dates which feel increasingly less and less like not-a-dates and more like the kinda thing that usually leaves a burning feeling in Bucky’s gut. 

Bucky might not have a lot of reliable friends, especially outside of Steve and Nat and their respectively busy lives, but now he has Sam. Sam, whose smile he loves, and who is the very first person Bucky wants to talk to when he wakes up in the morning. 

Sam even gets Bucky to come see him speak at the VA a few times. 

Steve’s been urging Bucky to come watch Sam talk for just about as long as he’s known the guy. 

“I think you really need to hear some of the stuff this guys says,” Steve had told him a million times, even before he got famous at his hand, “He’s got a way with vets, he really gets it. His speeches are really therapeutic and eloquent. I want you to come with me sometime.”

But then, Bucky had always said, “ _Yeah, sure, whatever. Sometime_.” And never bothered going downtown to listen to the guy speak. 

Sam, however, bribes Bucky with the promise of lunch, and Bucky doesn’t struggle at all. 

“Sam Wilson, you know the way to my heart,” Bucky says into his phone, lying on his back in bed the night before Sam’s shift at the VA. He doesn’t even realize how much he means it, “Yeah, I’ll stop by. But you better buy me lunch, or so help me god.”

“You know I will, Buck. Promise. G’night.”

Bucky doesn’t know why he’s breathless, “Night, Sam.”

When he shows up at the VA in the late morning, he doesn’t really know what to expect. 

Sure, Steve and Bucky’s sister had teamed up on him when he first left the army, made sure he was in a couple groups, talked to a couple people to make sure he was okay during the transition, but Bucky hadn’t cared in the slightest, hadn’t listened to a single word that came out of anybody’s mouth. He hadn’t cared. He’d swore he was fine, and he was lucky that he was, for the most part. But a little part of Bucky has been overseas every day since he’d left. Bucky figures nobody would ever be able to drag that part of him home, words or actions, it was all hooplah, so he didn’t listen. 

Man or woman, though, they hadn’t been Sam Wilson. 

Today, Bucky isn’t sure why he’s nervous. 

He’d deliberated what to wear all morning. Switched shirts and pants and jackets and shoes. In the end, he ended up wearing his most worn jeans and a black tee shirt, his trusty white sneakers. He threw the suede jacket he knew Sam liked over the whole thing and left the house feeling just as nervous as he had four outfits ago. 

It’s not until Bucky reaches the receptionist’s desk of the highly-stuccoed building that he starts to realize why he feels like his stomach is falling out. 

Bucky’s only ever existed in a Steve-related, Hollywood vacuum with Sam. This is stepping into something else entirely. This is real life. This is trauma and pain and bad memories, it’s the messy part. It’s being vulnerable and having a shell like a hermit crab two inches thick in every direction. It’s people with real-world jobs with real-world people outside of actors who dwell in identical white trailers and demand peach bellinis on the hour. This is reality. 

Bucky feels distinctly like he’s walking naked into an anti-nudity club convention. 

“I’m looking for the meeting with Sam Wilson?”

She smiles sweetly, fingers still poised like pale spiders over her keyboard, “The big room at the end of the hall.”

“Uh, thanks.”

The aforesaid big room at the end of the hall has a large square of chairs lined up neatly in the middle. Against one wall is a short, black table cloth-covered buffet table with what are very clearly stale donuts and a large, metal vat of insipid coffee. A few nervous-looking people wander the room, some appearing about as nervous as Bucky probably looks on the outside, some looking perfectly at ease. A man with a thick grey beard stands at the coffee machine until his cup is literally filled to the brim. 

Bucky tentatively takes a seat in the back row of the setup and checks his phone for the time being. He resolutely shoves his fists in his pockets and waits, idly people watching. 

It’s ridiculous. Possibly the most ridiculous thing of Bucky’s life. But when Sam walks in, mid-conversation with a petite, serious-looking brunette, a friendly hand on the girl’s arm, Bucky takes one look at him and feels all the weight on his shoulders fall away like grains of sand. It’s absolutely ridiculous. 

Sam spots him almost immediately, growing a sweet, secretive smile at the corners of his lips as he continues his conversation with the girl. Bucky lets himself smile. 

Sam expertly recentres himself on the girl, intermittently glancing at Bucky out of the corner of his eye. He gracefully terminates the conversation and guides the woman to a front row seat. The others who had been mulling about make their way to various seats in the first two rows. Sam smiles at the whole group. 

“Hey, guys,” Sam says, and even though Bucky’s got a gnarly vision in his head about what a VA meeting is like, he’s surprised to find that it just feels like Sam’s talking to him. Just like he does every morning and every night. Sam makes eye contact with every veteran in attendance in turn, ending with a growing smile at Bucky. 

Bucky isn’t really sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this. 

Afterward, they go out for burgers and milkshakes, as is becoming tradition with them. 

“What can I get you guys?” The waiter asks, one they’ve never had before. 

Sam grins like the charming bastard he is, and even as Bucky is still clutching onto the long, laminated menu, he says, “I’ll have a cheeseburger with extra pickles and a vanilla milkshake. And my friend here will have a bacon cheeseburger, hold the tomato, and a strawberry milkshake.”

The waiter barely reacts, scribbling quickly and nodding offhandedly, but Bucky’s caught by surprise, mouth hanging open and completely unable to focus on anything but Sam’s stupidly charming face- _when did he start thinking it was stupidly charming? Bucky remembers a time when he just thought Sam’s face was plain stupid, shoved into his phone all the time._

“Uh, yeah,” He agrees lamely, letting the menu drop, “That.”

“Alright, I’ll get that right out for you guys.”

Bucky waits for the waiter to leave, then leans forward dramatically, knuckles curled against the edge of the linoleum tabletop.

“You know my order,” He demands simply, and the strength in his voice seems to catch Sam by surprise. Bucky watches Sam’s eyes grow large, darting funnily. 

“Yeah, I do,” Sam says slowly, “Is that a problem?”

Well, no, it isn’t. But-

“You _know_ my order.”

“Yes, I just said that.”

“You know my _order_?”

“Bucky, are you okay?”

Bucky collapses back against the cheesy Naugahyde, “Yeah, I’m fine,” He finds himself smiling almost goofily, “I’m totally fine, Sam. Thanks.”

Sam smiles right back. 

Sam waits until Bucky’s got an overwhelming mouthful of bacon cheeseburger before he asks Bucky what he thought of the meeting. Bucky gracelessly chokes, reaching for his water as Sam waits with a bouncing knee. 

“Sorry, Sorry, I- _jesus_. Hold on. I-“ Bucky takes a few big, slow gulps of milkshake, “Sorry, okay. Uh, what was the question?”

Sam swirls his straw around in his tall shake. “How’d you like the meeting?”

“Honestly, Sam?”

“Yeah, Buck. Honestly.”

Bucky sucks offhandedly on his straw, “Wasn’t what I expected.”

Sam doesn’t look up from his drink, “Oh. Okay.”

“Wait, no, I- shit,” Bucky backtracks, “That’s not what I meant, Sam. I just had this idea in my head that it’d be a bunch of hypocritical know-it-alls telling me I’ve been living my life wrong.”

Sam pulls a face, and Bucky hurries to continue.

“But it wasn’t like that at all. It was… nice. I felt like everybody else really got me, y’know? I didn’t feel as alone anymore.”

Sam smiles, “That’s good.”

Bucky’s cursed mouth starts talking before his brain completely catches up, and he’s nodding, fingers tapping against the side of his tall, pink glass, “You usually make me feel good.”

And then he realizes what he said, and Bucky swears everything goes in slow motion and he feels every individual body part freeze in shock as the realization of what words came out of his mouth hits the rest of his body. _Shit._ Bucky’s head snaps upward in abject horror to gauge Sam’s reaction. Quickly, he’s spouting words and hapless excuses. 

“Or, I mean- you- I’m, uh-“

Bucky notices suddenly that Sam’s smiling, ridiculously. Bucky goes quiet. 

“I’m glad,” Sam says, and god-fucking-damn, his voice is softer than Bucky’s ever heard it. Bucky’s positive his face is flushing a deeper red than it ever has before, surely his face is on fire, surely _something_ , “You make me feel good, too, Buck. I’m really glad you came today.”

Bucky’s so fucked. 

He takes a nervous bite of bacon cheeseburger, just to do something, literally anything, to move the moment on. With a mouthful of burger, he tries a smile. 

Sam immediately tells him he’s got food in his teeth. 

Bucky feels himself let out a tense breath, “Shut up, asshole.”

Sam steals a fry, and Bucky knows more than ever in that moment, even as Sam thankfully changes the general topic of conversation, that he is way farther gone for Sam Wilson than he ever thought possible. 

After that, it kinda feels like a scary inevitability. Sam and Bucky. 

They meet in person at least every other day for cheap burgers or silly not-a-dates, and they text constantly even on the days they don’t see each other. Bucky goes to Sam’s VA meetings every week now, and they have a special, undisturbable burger date the hour after. 

They’ve officially reached ‘Friend’ Land, one foot in ‘Oops What’s This?’ World, and quickly encroaching on ‘Oh This Is New, Here’s Some Feelings’ Territory. 

Bucky’d almost find joy in the exciting new feelings rising rapidly into his throat if he wasn’t also completely and utterly terrified. He isn’t well equipped for this whole relationship thing. 

He makes that clear to Sam. Very clear. 

Sam’s dropping Bucky off at his apartment after a late dinner, the red corvette idling outside the building, Sam’s favorite album playing low in the air from the car stereo. It had been one of those days that felt so ridiculously nice, Bucky wondered if maybe it was all some scene from a movie, re-enacted without his knowledge. 

The stars were twinkling ridiculously in the sky, like flashing lights washed through filtered paper, a cardboard backdrop perfectly painted by stage hands just for the scene. The crazy guy that normally camped out in front of Bucky’s building was mysteriously absent, leaving nobody to jeer at the red car lingering on the asphalt. They’d spent hours at the diner again, pissing off the tired, teenage waitstaff once again. 

It’s all a very undeservingly perfect evening. 

But then Sam takes a chance and leans in to press a gentle kiss to Bucky’s lips, a seemingly obvious climax to the unerring buildup since their very first meeting, and Bucky completely freezes. 

Just like that, Bucky’s full demeanor switches in a moment from Meg Ryan to one of the toys in Toy Story 3. 

Sam doesn’t miss the way Bucky’s flesh morphs into fearful plastic, and he pulls away quickly before they ever touch lips. He curses under his breath.

“ _Shit_ , sorry Buck. That was- ignore that. Please.”

Sam’s grip visibly tightens around the steering wheel, hands at ten and two, knuckles tight. He stares down the horn like it’ll open up and swallow him whole if he waits really patiently. 

Bucky works to break out of his inwardly frenetic state. His breath is caught in his throat, but he wants to scream and cry and kiss Sam right back, but he’s absolutely fucking _terrified_. 

Sam unlocks the car door with his left hand without looking away from the wheel, “You can, uh, leave now if you want,” He says quickly, and Bucky can tell he’s trying so hard to make his voice sound casual, “Just ignore me. It’s fine. Just a lapse in judgement. It won’t-“

Bucky grabs Sam’s wrist quickly. He may be freaking out himself, but this is not a train of thought he wants Sam to finish. He wants- what he wants is _Sam._

“That’s not what I want,” Bucky interrupts, breathless, “I don’t want it to be a lapse in judgement.”

Sam’s lips part, and Bucky wants to kiss him so fucking bad, but he can’t get himself to fucking do it. He feels like a coward and a moron, adhered wholly to the familiar leather seat by his own stupid insecurities. 

“I want you, Sam, I really do, but-“ Bucky takes a sharp breath. Sam’s eyes are glued, unrelenting, on Bucky, “I’m afraid.”

Sam doesn’t expect that.

“Afraid?”

All Bucky can manage is an embarrassed nod. 

Sam gets it, somehow, bless him. He’s become fluent in Bucky over time, so annoyingly, heart-wrenchingly lingual in the language of this stupid man. In one fluid movement, he moves his wrist so that Bucky drops it, and wrings his hands so he’s grabbing onto both of Bucky’s. He all but forces Bucky to look him in the eyes. 

“You don’t have to be afraid, Buck.”

“I-I know, but-” There’s a lot of things in Bucky’s brain, too many overwhelming feelings, thoughts, fears. He’s afraid, “I’m not ready.”

Sam understands. 

“That’s okay. I can wait, Bucky. I can wait forever if that’s what you want.”

Bucky wonders who taught Sam to talk like that. Who gave him the right to say such sweet things that so carefully pull Bucky’s heart into every which direction. So sickeningly sweet Bucky feels it in his throat and in his toes, in the indescribable spot in his chest. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Bucky says, and it comes out breathy.

“I know,” Sam says softly, and he leans slowly forward to press a brave kiss to Bucky’s cheek. It’s slow enough that Bucky can resist if he wants, but fast enough he doesn’t overthink it. Like most things Sam does, it’s absolutely perfect, “Good night, Buck. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bucky’s head is swimming. All he can manage is to nod his head and grope for the vintage door handle, “Yeah, Sam. See ya’.”

When Bucky gets to his front door, the corvette is still on the street. Bucky waves, Sam waves back, and the corvette starts up, speeds away into the rom-com-perfect night. 

Bucky’s in awe that this is his life. 

Sam takes it incredibly slow with Bucky. It’s what he asked for, and it’s what he gets, that’s for sure. 

It’s strange that it almost feels like nothing’s changed. 

They still do the dinner in the evening most nights, they text like nothing’s different. Sam will send funny pictures of Steve in awkward acting-related positions that make Bucky snort with laughter and file away for blackmail. They’re the same friends they were before, but now Sam lets his hand settle at the base of Bucky’s back sometimes, guiding him into restaurants and trailers and other places that were once considered not-a-date venues and are more comfortably called date nights now. 

Soon enough, Bucky’s wishing he hadn’t said anything when he’d been in the passenger seat of the red corvette. He’s aware he’d said slow, and he’s grateful that Sam cares so much, but Bucky’s starting to go a little crazy at this glacial pace and he isn’t sure how to talk to Sam about moving up the timeline a little. 

Re: ill-equipped for relationships. 

But long story short, he’s kinda going slowly insane, and it’s all Sam’s fault. 

It’s Sam’s fault for letting his fingers linger on Bucky’s waist, on the small of his back, circles carefully around his wrists, fingertips hovering along Bucky’s mirrored ones. And yet, he never pushes any farther. Bucky knows it’s up to him to make the next move, but goddamn if it isn’t the hardest thing Bucky’s ever had to do. 

For now, Bucky has to continue on in this tortured existence and hope Sam doesn’t get too bored. 

Fortunately, despite Sam’s consummate gentlemanliness, he does actually express… wants. Touches that linger for a blissful beat extra than they really agreed upon, eyes with an extra look that land on Bucky with the worst intentions. But nothing he ever acts on. Unfortunately. 

For now they exist together in a purgatory of unspoken words, chugging along as normal as possible and trying to exhibit non-sexual intimacy as frequently as they can get away with. 

Even if they don’t go any farther, the knowing that Sam’s there, with wants and feelings and everything else Bucky could never even imagine, Bucky is glad that Sam’s still there, still coming around. It’s enough for now. 

Their hanging out doesn’t cease. If anything, it increases. Just about any free time is given to one another. Lunch breaks, free Saturdays after an exhausting double shift Friday. Late night chats and early morning, post-run breakfasts. 

Bucky’s picking Sam up from the set of _The Avengers_ when Steve finds out that Bucky and Sam might not be exactly who he thought they were to one another. 

Bucky wanders onset with only a marginally better cardinal understanding of the studio setup, the white cubes forming a maze more like the puzzles on the back of an Applebee’s kids’ menu than the New York Times setup he’d seemingly encountered earlier. Steve finds Bucky with his hands shoved in his pockets leaning against the outside of the main filmhouse. 

He brightens immediately as he spots his best friend, “Bucky! What did I do to deserve this, huh? I feel like we haven’t seen each other in weeks! I have lunch plans with Tony today, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you tagged along.”

“Actually, uh,” Bucky’s eyes dart nervously, “I already have lunch plans. I’m here to pick Sam up.”

Steve smiles, cocks his head like a naive puppy, “Oh, would you-“

He’s interrupted by Sam, who appears at Bucky’s side out of nowhere, “Hey, Buck! Ready for lunch?” He glances at Steve as if he hadn’t noticed he was there, “Hey, Steve.”

Steve goes uncharacteristically quiet, noticeably zeroes in on the miniscule sliver of space separating Sam and Bucky’s bodies. 

Bucky resists the ever-present urge to swing his arm around Sam’s waist and tuck him even closer, and he smiles at Steve, “Rain check?”

Steve nods, “Uh, yeah.”

And that’s how they leave him, stammering idiotically, eyes bugged. Steve watches in awe as his two best friends leave, shoulders bumping with each step, chests lifting with laughter. Tony finds him like that, standing contemplatively on an empty side street. 

He follows Steve’s gaze, spots the familiar retreating figures rounding toward the parking lot, and wraps an arm around his boyfriend, “Oh, did those guys finally get together? Good for them.”

Steve whips his head so fast to look Tony in the eye, unsure if he’s being pranked, the speed and ferocity of it could almost be described as violent.

“ _What?!_ ” He demands. Tony just laughs. 

“Oh, come on, babe.There’s no way you haven’t noticed. Those two are so stupid for each other. You really couldn’t tell?”

Steve doesn’t have a retort. He turns back at the blurry, faraway silhouette of his friends climbing into Bucky’s dingy 2007 gold Camry. 

Eventually, Tony tugs on Steve’s arm, “We only have half an hour for lunch. Come on. Stop worrying about them, they’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

Steve willingly lets his boyfriend pull him toward his trailer, but his mind is elsewhere. 

It’s not so much that Steve thinks they won’t be fine. It’s more so that… he can’t figure out why he didn’t see the signs earlier. 

And he’s not sure which one of them to give the shovel talk to. That too. 

He ends up lecturing them _both_ at one time or another on the potential extent of his wrath if one of his best friends is harmed in any way shape or form, even if the harm is done by the other aforementioned best friend. 

“You don’t have to worry about me. I can handle myself,” Bucky tells him, rolling his eyes, slumped on the ancient, uncomfortable couch he keeps in his apartment. Steve hadn’t even knocked before welcoming himself into Bucky’s apartment and all but threatening him. Bucky doesn’t even look away from the tv, his hands slouched in his lap. 

Steve still doesn’t sit, wringing his hands as he towers nervously over the couch, “I know,” He says slowly, “But you’re not the only one I’m worried about.”

It takes a moment for Bucky to realize what he’s saying. 

“Wait a minute,” Bucky turns slowly to narrow his eyes on Steve, “You think _I’m_ going to break _Sam’s_ heart?”

“Well, not necessarily, but… potentially. Yes, maybe,” Steve, in his defense, rubs at his neck, “I’m worried about both of you equally. I care about you both, you’re my best friends. I’d stand up against anything for either of you. But I just need you to know that if you hurt Sam, I’ll beat your ass.”

Bucky blinks, “Okay, two things. One, you _wish_ you could beat my ass, Mr Squishy Actor Man. In your dreams. I dare you to take a swing at me, see what happens. And second, what makes you think _I_ would be the one to hurt _him_?”

“I don’t, necessarily. I’m just covering my bases, I-“

“I don’t think you realize how far gone I am for him,” Bucky says very seriously, leaning forward against his knees,, surprising even himself with the strictly meaningful look he focuses on Steve. The corners of his mouth are pressed with a serious look, “Stevie, I’d do anything for that stupid man. I don’t think I could physically let him go even if I wanted to.”

Steve had expected that response even less so than Bucky had as the words were coming unbidden out of his mouth. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Bucky responds simply, feels a heat rush to his cheeks as he strictly looks back to the television. Steve finally collapses on the couch next to him. 

“Really?”

“Really.” Bucky insists without looking away. 

Steve’s voice is quiet this time, “Then why haven’t you, uh- sorry, but why aren’t you guys official then? I see the way he looks at you. You always get so nervous, I assumed you were holding back.”

Bucky rubs self consciously at the back of his neck, “Uh, yeah, I kinda am.”

Steve elbows him, “Why the fuck are you doing that? I just listened to you wax poetic about how you feel about him, what’s holding you back?”

“I, uh, don’t really know.”

“Bullshit.”

Fuck Steve for knowing him better than anybody else. 

“It’s complicated.”

“Sure it is. Too bad I’ve got time and an ear for listening. Try me.”

Really, seriously fuck Steve for being such an infuriatingly perceptive friend.

Bucky’s grip tightens around the tv remote as he nervously changes the channel, a surrogate action to his greatest wish in that moment of changing the topic of conversation. Alas, Steve’s pointed look remains. 

Bucky ends up telling him everything. His insecurities, his feelings. The way he kinda feels like he can’t breathe when Sam smiles. The way thinking about Sam moving on fills Bucky with an overwhelming, unparalleled sense of absolute dread and fear. Steve sits and listens politely, nodding at the correct moments, staying silent when Bucky needs to work through something. He sits and waits for Bucky to finish, and the moment he does, he shakes his head.

“Not to completely deride all you’re totally valid feelings here, Buck, but that’s the most idiotic thing you’ve ever said.”

“Wha-“

“I mean not the stuff about your wonderful, beautiful feelings. Good for you on that, Buck. It’s good to see you with hearts in your eyes. But the bullshit about being afraid? C’mon, seriously, are you stupid?”

Bucky straight up throws the remote at Steve as hard as he can, “Fuckin’ asshole. That’s the last time I tell you anything personal about my love life.”

Steve just laughs like the total asshole he is, catches the remote against his stomach, “Oh, come on, Buck. Seriously. You know it’s bullshit. Look- you served overseas. You’re trained to take down literal armies. You can tell a guy how you feel, geesh. I know it’s hard, but, dude, I wouldn’t be telling you this if I wasn’t absolutely certain. Sam is one of my closest friends, and I can promise you he’ll be head over heels if you tell him how you feel. Serious, all-cards-on-the-table, no-holds-barred how you feel. Because all this ooey-gooey, tortured romantic nonsense? It’s moronic. He feels the same way, dumbass. Tell him.”

Bucky bristles, just to be difficult.

“You’re an asshole,” Bucky repeats, because he knows Steve’s right, and he knows that Steve’s a good friend, but he’s never been one to admit it, “A huge, mother loving asshole.”

Steve smiles smugly despite the insult, “I know.”

Soon after that, Bucky settles on HGTV reruns as the two of them fall into a familiar silence. It’s not until the first commercial break that Bucky finally feels Steve look away from him to face the tv, trusting his best friend won’t ruin the one good thing he’s got. 

Bucky isn’t planning on letting that happen. 

The next morning, Bucky wakes up with a characteristic, vague hangover and no Steve in sight, a typical good morning text from Sam and a flutter in his chest. Today. Today’s the day. He promised Asshole Steve. 

He shoots a text back to Sam: _Mind if I come over sometime today?_

There’s an obvious hesitation in Sam’s response, a frantic curiosity. An ellipses appears and disappears, reappears and flashes away again nervously several times before Bucky gets an actual response while he’s brushing his teeth.

 _Sure_ , Sam responds in one text, quickly followed with a forced-casual trepidity, _Any particular reason?_

_Yeah. No worries. Just a talk._

Even through text form, Sam still seems worried if the uncharacteristic hesitation is anything to go by, but he responds positively nonetheless and tells Bucky that he’s free from work after 4:30. Bucky promises to come with fresh baked cookies from the bakery down the street from his apartment and tells him he’ll be there. 

By the time 4:00 rolls around, Bucky’s roiling with anticipation. He knows he didn’t do this- well, quite the right way. He’s sure Sam is eating himself alive right about now, but what’s done is done. He tortured himself over his already-failures all day. Within the next half hour, Bucky promises himself he’s gonna tell Sam how he feels, amazing faces, gorgeous smiles, stupidly famous best friends be damned. 

“Hey, gorgeous,” Sam says at 4:30 on the dot when he opens his front door. Bucky feels an involuntary shiver go through his body. Gorgeous, huh? He can’t imagine ever getting used to that, but he doesn’t mind the idea of trying, “Come on in.”

Bucky carefully toes off his shoes, tries to hide his nervousness by wringing his hands together, his wrists hidden by the wide sleeves of his heavy jacket.

“What’s, uh, what’s up, Bucky?” Sam asks directly. 

Bucky can’t stop staring at their feet, he’s not sure why. With both their shoes on the mat, they’re both left in their soft, worn socks, and Bucky can’t seem to look away. Socked feet on carpet. Worn jackets on a balmy California Autumn evening. Stupidly sweet little pet names, so achingly earnest. It’s all something he wants to get used to, and he feels himself grow with fortitude. 

Bucky takes a brave step towards Sam. 

This isn’t how he’d rehearsed doing this the thousand and a half times in his head, but he feels his heart thumping hard in his chest, his shoeless feet in Sam’s carpeted entryway, and he thinks maybe this isn’t the worst way to do it. 

He feels himself reaching two gentle hands out to wrap around Sam’s wrists, much like Sam had done when Bucky had freaked out in shotgun of the red corvette, and his so-called bravery holds itself hostage in his throat. 

“Sam,” He breathes more than says, and Sam himself looks vaguely frightened, but his eyes are big and bright and curious, and Bucky wants to dive right in. He feels like his goddamn heart is in his throat, “I’m ready.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, lips separated, words trapped high in his throat by a stainless steel lock and key, locked down by bated breath. Bucky barrels on unthinkingly. Rambling without direction is the only way to keep him breathing and upright and away from Potential Panic Attack Land.

“I, um- jesus, this is hard. Steve talked to him. Or rather, mostly I talked and he listened. But I rambled on for awhile, you know how I get, and at the end of it he looked at me and told me I’m an idiot. And I realized, Sam, goddammit, I am. I feel- so many things about you. So many good, amazing, terrifying things. But I feel them, and I shouldn’t hide them away anymore just because I’m scared. I want this. I want you. I want us,” Bucky feels himself falter in a final moment of fear, running out of words, “Do- do you still want this too, Sam? Please say yes.”

Sam’s quiet. Eerily uncharacteristically quiet. And for a moment, Bucky thinks _oh fuck, I waited too long. I fucked everything up. Great, I totally called it. He doesn’t feel the same way_. And then suddenly Sam’s cracking a smile, a laugh spilling out from the space between his lips, and Bucky’s thinking wait, what?

“Steve gave me the ol’ shovel talk too. If I’d known that was all it took to get you in motion, I would’ve sicced my sister on you weeks ago.”

Bucky punches Sam in the bicep, but he’s smiling. They’re both smiling. Absolutely ridiculously. Bucky refuses to let go go Sam.

“God, you’re just as much of an asshole as Steve, you know that?”

Bucky leans forward and indulges in the most perfect kiss of his life. Or, well, okay, so it’s probably not the ‘most perfect’ because that’s a pretty high bar, but god, the way Sam makes Bucky feel like his whole goddamn heart is leaving his chest, it’s surely something like that.

“I know you’re scared,” Sam says softly, their noses touching ridiculously, “You don’t have to be. I won’t hurt you, I promise. We’re in this together.”

Bucky feels like he might fall apart, shatter, melt, any of those dramatically life-altering verbs that he can sic onto his current situation because he looks at Sam and he feels suddenly like everything makes sense and fits together. Fuck, his internal monologue is starting to sound like some sickening, love-addled romantic comedy and he’s barely even mad about it, secretly embracing his inner Meg Ryan.

“Sam, I want to wake up with you and tell you about my day over dinner every single day. I want to cry with you and live my happiest moments with you. I know I’m sounding like a sappy idiot, and you’re probably the worst idea I’ve had in my whole life, the way I feel about you. Hell, I’m still not entirely sure why you’d ever even think of wanting me like that, and I’ll probably screw up a hell of a lot. But I want it Sam. Seriously. All of it.”

Sam kisses him again, because there’s seemingly nothing left to say. Verbal communication goes out the window. Actions speak louder than words and all that. 

They’re still in the stupid-small entryway to Sam’s apartment. 

“Invite me in?” Bucky breathes, barely managing to pull away, Sam’s fingers curling into a death grip around the firm right angle of Bucky elbows. Sam nods and tugs him further into the apartment.

“Welcome, gorgeous,” Sam just manages before Bucky’s on him again. He’s in this now, through and through. 

Two days of figuring-out-what-this-is, domestic brilliance later, Bucky shoots Steve a cheery text. A snapped picture of him and his new man lounging in bed, Sam’s sleeping head resting against Bucky’s chest punctuated by Bucky’s smug, smiling face.

_Hope you don’t mind I steal your agent :)_

Steve’s response: _Good job, numbnuts. Congrats. You guys owe me and Tony a double date. I’m happy for you guys._

Before Bucky’s able to type up his immediate response, Sam stirs softly awake, and Bucky doesn’t bother to answer for the time being. 

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

Bucky isn’t quite sure how he got here, in this bed. This complicated love story of his. It’s not-traditional. A couple of vets, one a lowly dishwasher, the other a manager to the stars of Hollywood, a single popular connection between the two. God, it was all so unlikely. Bucky smiles down at the man below him. He finds that he doesn’t quite mind how he got here, he’s just glad he is.

Bucky presses a kiss to Sam’s forehead and lets the rest of the ridiculous, star-addled world fall away.


End file.
